Not Enough Light
by Vaudevillain
Summary: Dodger reflects on who he is, and what others mean to him. OliverDodger.


**Not Enough Light**

"Morning is here, my dear. Time to get up, plenty to do, plenty to do. Have a scrap to eat before you go, wouldn't want your little belly growling while you work, would give you all away. That's it, my dear – up, up, a little water on the face will do a world of good. There's a boy, a little water. Splishy splashy – haha! that's how it's done, my dear, that's how it's done. Okay, arms out; should wear a coat today, and we have a fine one for you, a fine one indeed. Oh, you're sleeping on your feet, my dear. Dodger, get the boy something to eat, he looks as white as a ghost. See, Oliver, your dear friend Fagin treats you kindly, he does indeed, giving you fine scraps of meat to eat. Just gobble it all up, there's a dear, don't want you feeling ill."

The sun is up and streaming through musty curtains. Fagin is up, and the boys are up too. And now Oliver is up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and trudging across the landing. He splashes his face with icy water and tries to rub off the grime, but it's no use; the water is dirtier than his face. He puts on a coat; a dusty velvet rag, but he feels important all the same. He looks about nobly, but Dodger gives him an affectionate punch and brings him down a notch, and the pride is gone, replaced with a shy smile. They eat a hurried breakfast: no sausages this time, only twice-baked bread and milky water, a scrap of cheese for the ones Fagin loves best.

And then they're off, each boy hollering "G'day, Fagin" and leaping down the stairs or sliding along the banister in twos and threes, holding onto tattered hats and hitting the dirty ground running. Dodger and Oliver are last to leave since Oliver likes to thank Fagin properly, as best as his rosy lips can manage. He's not used to talking and being listened to, so he takes his time.

Oliver isn't ready for this sort of game, Dodger thinks, so he spares the boy most of the trouble. When they're nipping about the bookshops, the cobbler's, or the tailor's, Dodger has Oliver stay behind and help in only if they really need him. Dodger never calls for him, but gives him half the treasures anyway.

Dodger nicks them lunch that day, filching a loaf of bread and a floppy piece of ripe-pink ham. They eat it hungrily, and Dodger gives up his remainders to Charlie when Charlie happens by. Dodger knows power is more important than a quick meal, and besides, Charlie looks hungry and he feels full anyway. He watches his boys eat and feels proud to be the provider.

Oliver is still shy, even after all this time. Dodger doesn't know whether he should feel angry. That's his problem; he tries to take after Bill Sikes, all fury and sparks, but Dodger just doesn't know how to manage being Bill, acting dirty and suave, and cruel when he wants. Dodger has to think to himself, What would Bill feel? And, when he comes to an answer, he pretends to feel it, but he doesn't actually feel it, not really. So when Oliver acts shy and polite, an indulgent smile hiding just behind those sad eyes, Dodger thinks: What would Bill feel? He thinks Bill would be angry, so Dodger tries to be angry, but can never quite manage it.

They're home by nightfall; Fagin doesn't like them being out after dark. "Not enough light, not enough light," Fagin would say, though Dodger always knew there was something more. They eat a dinner of sausages, mouldy potatoes, and a bit of gin and water to lift the spirits. The windows are open and a cold breeze wafts through the house, bringing with it the noises of the street: grunting, yelling, screaming, laughing, vomiting, and that hidden sound of despair. The boys have long since learned to block it out, but Oliver, who is still fresh, beautiful and new seems unsettled by it. So Dodger nudges the rest of his gin into Oliver's cup and gives the boy a genial squeeze on the shoulder.

The evening plays on sluggishly. The boys play cards, or take forty winks under threadbare blankets. There's not enough wood of the fire or oil for lamps, so they live by the light of the moon. As it wears on – and it does wear on; like a disease – the temperature drops, and Fagin doles out more gin to keep a dismal level of satisfaction; but some satisfaction is better than none at all. He does the best he can and he's loved for it.

Midnight sees the boys begin to drop off to sleep, snoring and whimpering and gasping in their beds. Midnight also sees Dodger curled into a ball in his bed, eyes drooping, though not closed. Midnight sees Oliver sitting by the window, eyes wide and reflecting the moon. Midnight sees Dodger watching Oliver amiably, almost defensively.

"You ever going to sleep, Oliver?" Dodger says just after the clock strikes a gloomy, dulcet one.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Oliver asks quietly, turning to look at Dodger.

"No, no. Can't sleep neither," he says, pulling his pipe from out of his jacket pocket. He strikes a match and lights his pipe, takes a stuttering puff and exhales a stream of blue-grey smoke. Oliver turns back to the window, and Dodger continues to watch him, sucking on his pipe thoughtfully, letting slip the occasional breath of smoke.

The clock strikes two, and Oliver turns back to find Dodger still awake, his pipe having long been put away.

"You're shivering," Dodger observes inconsequentially. Oliver swallows and nods. "I think Charlie's stole your blanket. Well, give 'er here, then," says Dodger, beckoning Oliver with a nod. Oliver pads over to Dodger, and crawls down beside him. Feeling like a provider once more, Dodger opens his once-beautiful coat and pulls Oliver into it, wrapping it around the boy's shoulders. Oliver curls against Dodger's side and Dodger's lithe fingers find themselves messing through Oliver's hair, tangled in his curls.

Minutes slip by and Dodger begins to feel acutely uncomfortable having Oliver under his arm. He feels like Fagin, tobacco-stained fingers and rusty flyaway hair, corrupting and seducing children into his fold. He feels like Bill Sikes, manipulative and megalomaniacal, taking people to satisfy his own sick desires. Suddenly Dodger wants to let go, wants to push Oliver far away so he doesn't have to feel like he does. But then Oliver sighs lightly and nuzzles into Dodger's side, and he knows he can't push this boy away, because Oliver is special. He's white, and pure. He's grimy and dirty all over, but only his skin – it doesn't go down to the heart; not like him, not like Dodger.

"I'm going to be a High Toby one day," Dodger says suddenly, "the grandest Toby in all of London. All of England, even. I'll wear a big green coat, with proper brass buttons. And I'll tip me hat to all the girls. I'll have a big stone house out in the country, and I'll ride into town on the biggest, noblest black horse. When I need money, I'll go the next county over and hold up a carriage and make way with the treasures. And no one will blame me, Oliver, because I'll be the kindest, most intelligent gentleman there ever was. I'll go down on a knee to welcome a magistrate, and on two knees to greet a governor. I'll go to church every day and give a shilling or two. And I'll carry a pistol on both legs, and a rapier, and a dagger in my boot. It'll be grand, it will."

Dodger looks down to where Oliver is curled snugly against his side. "You don't talk much, do you?" Oliver shakes his head sleepily. "No, that's good. That's good, that is. Better not to talk. Nothing gets you into trouble more than talking." Dodger takes a breath and organises his thoughts. "Oliver, listen to me. There are two places in this world. The gallows, and everywhere else. Now, most people live in the everywhere else, and the people who don't fit there go to the gallows and that's that. You and I, and Charlie and Flip and Nancy and Bet and Fagin and Bill – we're not at the gallows, but not in the everywhere else. We're between the two, constantly jumping back and forth, from gallows to the normal world then back to the gallows. But we're dodgers, see. The Artful Dodger, like me name. We're treading the line, between getting killed and living – real living, I mean; out there, in the world, where you don't have to run and hide when someone recognises your face." Dodger pauses and strokes Oliver's hair absently. "You're different though. You've got some blood in you, you have. Good blood. Blood none of us ever seen before. You're not going to be treading that line much longer –"

Dodger stopped abruptly when he realised Oliver was asleep. He stays awake a bit longer, stroking the boy's hair, but soon falls into dreamless, peaceful sleep.

Oliver wakes up the next morning surprisingly warm. The gold coin of the sun is already climbing the sky, and the light pools around him in dusty patches. Dodger is gone; the boys are gone, and so is Fagin – the room is empty and smells of old gin and stale bread. Turning over, Oliver realises he is still wearing Dodger's coat, warm and soft and smelling strongly of the older boy. Oliver gets up and slides his arms through the sleeves, hugging the coat close to his body. He walks over to the window and gazes down to the cobblestone pavement where people like ants are milling about, doing their daily business under the rising sun. He pictures Dodger jumping and dancing between the people, taking handkerchiefs here and wallets there, grinning and laughing as he did. Oliver smiles in spite of himself.

He waits all day for Dodger to come home.


End file.
